


In June

by stardust_made



Series: The High Tide Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Beta by the fantastic disastrolabe. Final part of "The High Tide Series". Original entry at my Livejournal at http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/19027.html If you feel like you'd like to drop me a line, please do so there. Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote>





	In June

Sherlock isn’t surprised when John nods off, weighing pleasantly on his chest. But he really doesn’t expect to follow suit. He only intends to close his eyes for a moment…and when he opens them next, the light in the room has changed and they have both rolled onto their sides, Sherlock resting his front against John’s back.

As soon as he stirs John stirs, too, and is fully awake within seconds —clearly a habit from his army days. Sherlock decides the best course of action is to do nothing, mostly because he has no idea what he is supposed to do. However limited, he’d had the advantage of _some_ sexual experience with men, compared to John’s total lack of it. But for as long as he can remember, Sherlock has never woken up in an embrace with anyone. He’s never had sex and then held the person in his arms and slept. Sherlock knows what he would _like_ to do, but his wishes aren’t necessarily adequate to this novel situation.

John clears his throat and shuffles onto his back, then looks at Sherlock. Sherlock looks back and John smiles all the way to his eyes.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

John lifts his head to look at the room.

“What time is it?”

“Between a quarter past and half past six.”

John drops his head back then turns to look at Sherlock again, who has meanwhile propped himself onto his left elbow. John extends his hand and carefully drags a thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip, and Sherlock is again _quite_ clear on his own wishes. The backs of his fingers shyly skirt around John’s navel; will it be too soon if he—

Sherlock both hears and feels John’s stomach rumble. He freezes, then bolts out of bed, John’s bewildered “Where are you going?” trailing after him as he enters the bathroom.

“Loo. Then we’re going out. You need some food and we’re on a holiday.”

Sherlock doesn’t hear John’s reply, but it has to be an agreement. It _was_ too soon, probably. And he doesn’t want John to think Sherlock brought him here to keep him locked in the bedroom like some sex-obsessed teenager.

***

St. Mary’s Island is exactly the way it looked on the website: picturesque, entirely removed from the urban feel of London and bathed in a lazy blue hue. John points at different features of the scenery, comparing them to his childhood memories. The blueness of his eyes intensifies as he gets near the water. There John relapses into silent, more private reminiscing. Sherlock tries not to gaze at him too much and instead begins telling the story of a case he read about some years ago. Something melancholic in John’s face, begging to be erased, prompts him to do it—that and the smell of creosote from one of the boats. 

So Sherlock talks and soon John is listening with avid interest. No wonder—the case has all the marks of a tale to John’s liking: adventure, romantic undertones, crime at the core. Sherlock tries to stick to the facts but he finds himself adding details with surprising flourish—really, he never expected he could be a storyteller himself. At least he is honest enough to admit that his attempts in the genre are entirely dependent on his audience.

Sherlock found some notes on the case as well as newspaper clippings in some of the oldest police files he’d ever laid hands on—they’d dated back to the end of the nineteenth century. A couple of related murders, all leading to a treasure chest, of all things. Treasure from the “exotic East” to boot. There was a young woman involved, an heiress, but Sherlock didn’t follow up that particular part of the report. The police notes were fairly scattered and showed extraordinary inefficiency coupled with an all too familiar inability to connect the dots and see the obvious. But there were some other notes there—unofficial notes—indicating the interference of a keener mind. Sherlock doubted the author of those scribbled notes was more than the chronicler of someone else; the hand-writing and the style, although very individual, lacked sharpness and precision. But Sherlock was fascinated nevertheless: a series of deductions had led to a pursuit along the Thames and to the capture of the murderer. 

John seems equally fascinated and they discuss the case further in a local café overlooking the beach. John eats a massive egg and bacon sandwich and Sherlock eats a scone, while they ponder what sort of person would have helped the police all those years ago without looking for any recognition. John looks at him oddly, but Sherlock ignores him—he’s too busy fretting about whether it would be appropriate to pick a crumb from John’s chin and put it in his mouth.

They walk around town for a bit longer and when the sky begins to change colours their feet reach a mute consensus and turn in the direction of the hotel. By the time they’re inside, the first drops of rain have made the geraniums at the front door strain their bright heads and exude their subtle scent. 

John’s face has been changing like the summer sky all afternoon: from open and sunny, through momentarily overcast by the pier, to unpredictable as they were approaching the hotel. Sherlock wonders if John is nervous or having second thoughts, but thankfully he doesn’t have time to dwell—as soon as they get into their room, John turns and pulls him down for a kiss. Sherlock’s eyes close as his mouth opens readily. They stand quietly in the niche behind the door and for a few minutes just kiss, thoughts emptying out of Sherlock’s head like grains of sand through an hourglass. The haphazard brushes of John’s tongue make clusters of nerve endings throb with blunt arousal all the way down to Sherlock’s pelvis. John pushes a knee between Sherlock’s legs and Sherlock feels his own knees turn to butter. 

They carry on kissing and John hums softly in his mouth. Then he abruptly detaches himself and before Sherlock’s even opened his eyes in protest, he feels himself being manoeuvred backwards to sit on the bed. John tugs Sherlock’s jacket down his shoulders and throws it aside, then starts unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. When he gets to the third button, his eyes lift to Sherlock’s face…and John suddenly stops. Sherlock blinks in apprehension but John only straightens and looks down at him; he puts his palms on both sides of Sherlock’s face and pushes the hair away from it in a caress. He repeats the gesture and this time keeps the hair back. 

Sherlock fights a powerful impulse to shake John off or at least close his eyes. He’s never cared much about how he looks—he knows he’s got unusual features because people often stare at him, _before_ he’s spoken. But now he’s self-conscious. He withstands the instinct to protect himself from such scrutiny—what helps is the look of stupefied marvel in John’s eyes, not quite like anything Sherlock’s seen before. 

John opens his lips as if to comment, but words fail him and only his tongue darts out for a silent lick. He continues to hold Sherlock’s bare face between his hands, his fingers steady in the curls. A spiral is slowly unwinding in John’s irises and finally they are so intense that Sherlock all but shivers. John lowers his lips and brushes his brow, his cheekbone, the finer skin under the corner of his eye. He pulls back and finally speaks.

“I want to go down on you.”

Sherlock swallows and nods. John lets go of his face with a final kiss on the mouth and drops to his knees between Sherlock's legs. His fingers undo the buttons of Sherlock’s trousers and rub the hardness underneath through the material. Sherlock finds his hips twitching in response. John caresses him lightly a bit longer, then slides the zip down and palms him through his boxer shorts. Sherlock opens his lips for an emphatic _oh_ but just then John lifts his wheat-coloured eyelashes and says:

“I don’t know how to do that. I’ve never…you know. You’ll need to tell me what to do.”

Sherlock looks down at him in well-contained alarm.

“Um, I’m not quite—I’m not an expert myself.”

John frowns.

“Have you not—Sorry, I thought you’d done this before.”  


“No,” Sherlock replies over John’s last words.

“Oh. Right.”

They both remain quiet for a few moments. John opens his mouth to speak but Sherlock beats him to it.

“John, I wasn’t lying when I told you this wasn’t my area. I’ve only ever wanted to have sex once in my life; that is before you, I mean. It was years ago and he was a friend—he was my only friend, in fact. He seemed to like me, too, and we did some things, but it didn’t quite—And then in my third year of College I did some experiments. Anyway, it was nothing. I didn’t feel anything and certainly there were no—um, nobody went down on anybody.”

John contemplates him for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip.

“I see. Okay,” he says at the end.

“Does this change things? We don’t have to—you don’t have to do anything.“

John turns a lopsided smile up at Sherlock.

“I know I don’t. Right, I, er—I know what I like and I’ve watched adult films but…Well, I never quite focused on the technique. I’ll just do my best and you’ll have to—you’ll give me feedback as I go along. That’s right up your street, eh?”

Sherlock tries to smile back but the nerves of his earlier sudden confession—where did all _that_ come from?—still hold his muscles tense. He tries to relax, then comes up with what he hopes is a helpful suggestion.

“I think it’s a bit like sucking on an ice lolly.” He makes some speed-of-light readjustments to that mental image and adds, “In June.”

John huffs a giggle and Sherlock stares down at him and thinks that if ever so much as a hair fell from John’s head, it would make Sherlock’s world a very, very bad place.

John turns his attention to the boxer shorts again and resumes rubbing Sherlock through the cotton. Mesmerised, Sherlock watches John’s hand, the top of his blond head, the tip of his nose, while his own breathing gets more and more shallow. When he lifts his hips for John to pull down his trousers and underwear, Sherlock doesn’t think he’s ever seen himself so erect in his entire life. 

John doesn’t waste time and gets hold of him, the first touch of flesh on flesh threatening to pop a blood vessel in Sherlock’s brain. John strokes him a few times, his hand awkward in its positioning but quite assured. Sherlock props himself back on his hands and closes his eyes, this is good, yes, good…

Then the hand disappears and is replaced by a wet sensation. Sherlock opens his eyes to find John delicately moving his lips around him. Sherlock can’t see much of his face, but he feels the uncertainty; John must have soldiered on, like he does with all things in life: something new, something scary—let’s just get on with it. What a remarkable man he is, such a staggering combination of common sense and feet-on-the-ground—and the flights of fancy that send him following Sherlock everywhere, and that oblique side of him, that—wait, why is he thinking about all this?

“It’s too light. The pressure isn’t enough,” Sherlock murmurs. “I can’t—I can’t feel you.”

John doesn’t look up but increases the pressure and _oh yes_ , this is better, why does John do anything he asks of him, why, why? All Sherlock has to do is ask and John does it—there, look at this now. It’s as if he doesn’t question Sherlock, as if he trusts him. He’s trusted him from the very beginning and Sherlock took ages to figure it out because it was so new, so utterly beyond his experience—no one had ever trusted him before, not like John; no one had just walked in and accepted him, and to have that happen to him with this most extraordinary, most wonderful of all men is just too good to be true—

“John.”

John lets him out of his mouth and looks up.

“It’s not working. I can’t stop thinking.”

John nods.

“Yeah, same here.”

They look at each other. John purses his lips.

“We’re doing this the wrong way. Come on, let’s just get into bed.”

He starts taking off his clothes. Sherlock watches him, but then follows; soon they are both naked under the covers. John is just about to reach for Sherlock’s face, when he seems to have an afterthought and gets out to close the curtains quickly, before returning to bed. They lie on their sides facing each other immobile for a long second; then, as if someone’s flipped a switch, they move closer in unison and start kissing.

Warmth and John’s closeness lull Sherlock and his restlessness abates. He takes John into his arms and starts stroking his body, feeling John’s hands splay on his back and replicate the movements. They do just that for a while, before John moves his head up and nudges with his nose to get better access to Sherlock’s ear. He nibbles and sucks, then inhales deeply at the hair just behind the ear. Sherlock’s hand slides down John’s stomach and takes hold of his erection, triumphant at the familiarity of _that_ contact. John drops his head and buries his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck and for a few moments Sherlock strokes him steadily, feeling his breath heat up. He squeezes and John’s groan pours directly into his ear. Sherlock shivers. Yes, John likes this, this is nice—

He feels John’s hand closing around his wrist to stop it from moving, but Sherlock ignores it and tries to continue; the grip tightens and he hears John’s roughened voice:

“No, don’t—Don’t do that.”

“Why?” Sherlock pulls away to look at John’s face. It’s twilight and he can barely distinguish John’s features, but they look suitably dazed.

“Because you’ll make me come.”

“And?”

John pulls back, too, and takes in Sherlock’s face.

“I don’t want to come. I want to make you come.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, but John gets hold of his head again, his voice dark like the falling night.

“Do you know how—I _want_ to make you come, for goodness’ sake—you are so utterly—you drive me—“

John pushes his tongue deeply into Sherlock’s mouth, then surges to his ear and breathes:

“Gorgeous, do you understand—I want you _so much_ , you have no idea, Sherlock…”

Suddenly all Sherlock can feel is the drag of John’s body down his. John dives under the covers and his hands are on Sherlock’s hips, and they pull forward and _oh God, oh God, his mouth._ Sherlock lets his head fall back with a loud gasp and barely stops himself from thrusting. It’s all moisture and heat, and he was right, it _is_ like a lolly in June, so much sucking, _good_ pressure everywhere, so good, so good…

He groans when John flicks his tongue— _yes, oh, right there—_ and feels John’s hands cradling his hips and pressing them forward, hungry to take more of him. Sherlock doesn’t realize his fingers have been skittering all over the place until John catches his hand and places it at the back of his own bobbing head. Sherlock can’t breathe with emotion at the gesture, he wants to weep, he must be weeping in John’s mouth, he is in John’s mouth, he is _in_ John’s mouth, John wants him, John, John—

Sherlock falls apart, his orgasm taking him by surprise. He manages to pull out and grabs hold of himself, while his other hand digs into John’s shoulder. He strokes himself, John’s fingers wanting to be part of it, circling Sherlock’s fist to move with it. Sherlock is moaning, his throat convulsing with his body and years of solitude drain out of him, years of not a single intimate touch, of _no John, there was no John, I missed you so much, all my life_. Sherlock doesn’t think—he lifts John up while sliding down and engulfs him, sucks him good and hard— _mine, mine—_ and too soon John is coming, trying to extract himself from Sherlock’s mouth but Sherlock keeps him in, swallows everything and trembles with him, and there’s nothing but warm darkness everywhere and _John_.

Sherlock isn’t quite sure how they manage to arrange themselves on their sides again, this time with John spooning Sherlock from behind. He _thinks_ John cleaned them up with something, and there might have been a bottle of water they both drank from. His senses and his reason are very sluggish to return to him and he finds that he doesn’t want to move, to be anywhere else or be anyone else—this, here, is all he wants. He touches John’s hand on his stomach and John’s fingers immediately capture his.

After a few moments John grins guilelessly—there’s hardly any light left in the room and Sherlock doesn’t have a pair of eyes on the back of his head, but nevertheless he can feel the smile as if it’s offered on a silver platter.

“What?”

“I was thinking that for two very inexperienced men, we did quite well.”

Sherlock considers the assessment and finds it fair. He squeezes John’s fingers.

“Yes, we did.” There’s a pause. Sherlock wants to tell John, he wants to _explain_ to John, John must know—

“John…”

“Hm?”

Sherlock’s throat gets too tight so he just squeezes John’s fingers again. There’s a puff of air on his neck and something soft and gentle presses quickly there.

“I know, I…Yeah, I know.”   
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the fantastic disastrolabe. Final part of "The High Tide Series". Original entry at my Livejournal at http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/19027.html If you feel like you'd like to drop me a line, please do so there. Thank you for reading!


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